


Day Off

by crrrrabby



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Male Solo, Masturbation, Other, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-08
Packaged: 2019-05-03 20:56:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14577486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crrrrabby/pseuds/crrrrabby
Summary: The fort, unsurprisingly, does not allow Sniper a lot of alone time.





	Day Off

The fort, unsurprisingly, does not allow Sniper a lot of  _ alone  _ time.

He keeps his van on the property, of course, but it’s not soundproof or idiot-proof. If his hand is anywhere near the region of his genitals when Scout and his nasally accent are in the vicinity or Soldier is nearby shouting drills at himself, he finds himself overwhelmed with an inexplicable feeling of dread, a completely rational fear that one of the lunatics he lives with might destroy the lock on his van and come bursting in. 

That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still whack one out every now and then, but it’s hurried and anxious and not terribly satisfying.

What’s worse is that he can’t just drive off somewhere quiet whenever he likes. The fort is locked down pretty tight and the mercs aren’t allowed to leave whenever they like when they’re on contract. He has to put in a time off request - something he has definitely used as evidence that “sniping  _ is _ a _ real job _ , Dad, I have bloody vacation time and everything.” And even then, it might be denied, because he has no way of knowing what the future schedule for skirmishes is, and then he has to pick another couple of days and submit the forms AGAIN, and…

By the time he’s finally cleared to leave for his private wank-off session disguised as a camping trip, he almost doesn’t want to go anymore. Almost.

He’s using the excuse of camping not just to save face with his fellow mercs, but also to lie to himself. Sniper’s not prone to self indulgence, and driving aimlessly out into the desert just to have a fuckin’ good orgasm for once in his bloody miserable life would definitely be indulgent and pathetic, he thinks. It’s a good thing that’s not what he’s doing, then.

So early that morning, he packs up his bow and materials to make a fire pit, drives into the desert, stops driving around noon, and makes sure to spend the last part of the day hunting for something to eat later that night. He nabs a couple of rabbits as quickly as he can and is back at his van before sundown. He sets up bottles in the distance as targets for a little bit of of bow and arrow practice before he starts prepping his fire pit. His aim was a little sloppy earlier when he was hunting, if he’s being honest with himself. Not much room for bows and arrows on a battlefield with guns and now he’s not quite as steady with it as he used to be. Besides, he hasn’t gone a day in his adult life without doing at least a little work, and he certainly isn’t about to start now.

He preps the pit and the rabbits, sets up a makeshift spit from sticks, cleans the gore and sweat off of himself as best he can in his tiny sink, and sits back to let the rabbits roast while he smokes a cigarette.

It’s then, sitting hunched over in the doorway in the back of his camper, that he allows himself a moment to appreciate how truly isolated he is. No yelling, no whining, no one to bother him. Just the crackling of a fire he made with his own two hands and the calls of animals in the distance.

Finally  _ fucking  _ alone. God, he missed being alone.

Sniper takes a long drag on his cig and feels like he’s truly breathing for the first time in months.

He wondered at first, back when he was putting the request in, if this would be a waste of the one vacation day granted to him by his shitty contract, but it’s not as though he would have allowed himself anything more extravagant anyway. 

He unbuttons a few more buttons on his shirt than he usually would, giving himself a little more breathing room. The sun’s just going down past the horizon and he’s eagerly awaiting the cool night time of the desert. 

Minutes pass, he finishes his cig and puts it out in the dirt, and he decides maybe it’s alright if his hat comes off too. He sets it down next to him, cards his fingers through his hair, damp with sweat from walking around in the sun all day.

He adjusts his sitting position, leaning against the door frame, one of his too-long legs propped up in the cabin and the other dangling off the edge. Idly, as though pretending his hand has a mind of its own, he brushes his hand over his crotch.

Rabbits won’t be done for a while. If he has time for a wank, he thinks, what’s the harm? No harm. Just a man enjoying some down time while his dinner cooks.

He stares out into the distance, squinting through his sunglasses, as he teases himself over his clothes. He’s soft, but it doesn’t take more than a few gropes for him to start hardening quickly.

Sniper isn’t usually one for fantasy. Jacking off is typically quick and businesslike for him, as efficient as putting a bullet in someone’s skull, and he’s not imaginative enough to dream anything up quickly. But, fuck, it’s his bloody holiday, he thinks. Maybe he can allow himself a little leisure for once.

He wrestles with his belt and zipper for a moment, barely pushing his pants down at all before grabbing his half-erect dick through his boxer briefs. He gives it a harsh tug over the fabric before pulling it out, hissing as the head accidentally catches on the opening flap.

He barely spares his own cock a glance before returning his gaze to the horizon. He’s always thought his dick was a little weird looking, a little too long and too skinny and too veiny. Not that he’s seen that many other cocks.

He grasps the base of it and imagines - maybe a woman, maybe someone like the ladies in the magazines he found stuffed under the cushions of the one couch they had in the fort. Someone with slender fingers and -

He cringes as he gives himself an exploratory pump. No. His hands are definitely not a pretty model’s hands.

Maybe a working man, then. That would be fine. Maybe a man with rough skin like Sniper’s, wrapping his hand around Sniper’s cock, licking a broad stripe up the underside of it, taking it into his mouth -

No. No, no, no. He brings his fingers over the head of his cock and they don’t feel anything like anyone’s mouth would, and the fantasy is immediately ruined. He’s simply not creative enough to pretend is hand is anyone else’s hands or anyone’s mouth. The second he feels his own broad, cauloused fingers on his cock the mental image dissipates.

He swears, and he hasn’t spoken all day so the word feels coarse in his mouth and in his throat. He grabs himself a little rougher, lets his other hand rest on his stomach, his shirt askew, exposing his happy trail to the cooling air. He jerks his hand in quick, sharp motions, slowing down only to rub his coarse thumb over the head of his cock, over the slit, hissing as his dry hand pulls against the skin as he jerks it back down. He’s tried being nice with himself before, lubing up his hand and going slow because he thought maybe he could stimulate the feel of a wet pussy enveloping him, but it never quite gave him enough friction, enough relief. He prefers it rough like this, prefers wanking the fucking life out of his cock as he spreads his legs and grabs at his balls, squeezing hard enough to hurt, just a little.

It’s not that hot out anymore but he feels himself getting sweaty again, can smell his own body odor starting to sink into the pits of his t-shirt. A thin sheen has developed under his sunglasses, causing them to slip a little further down his nose as he silently jerks his hips up into his own clenched fist.

Secretly, he wonders if everyone’s speculations that he some kind of pervert because he pisses in jars is true. He never thought he was particularly perverted - the piss has never been a  _ sex  _ thing, just a matter of convenience, a gross habit he picked up due to his job - but when he’s jacking his dick so hard it might fall off he thinks maybe he’s just repressed it.

Maybe he is just some filthy, lanky piece of shit, he thinks, maybe all along he’s been some sort of sex animal and the reason he couldn’t reliably get off with all his bloody “ _ teammates”  _ around is because he’s embarrassed, embarrassed to have a fucking sex drive at all when he’s supposed to be a  _ professional _ , and here he is taking a day off his job to  _ wank _ , maybe he’s a fucking  _ disgrace  _ -

Jesus Christ, he thinks, as he cums hard, letting out a strangled cry splattering cum all over his own hand still wrapped tightly around himself, and he pitches forward, back arching off of the door frame as he pants loudly and fuck. Fuck, those cannot be healthy thoughts to cum to.

He cleans himself off. He tucks his softening cock back into his pants. He eats his fucking rabbits and tries very hard not to think about any of the thoughts he just had.

He lays on the top of his van and looks at the stars and thinks about it, and he does it one more time.

He drives back to the fort in the morning and convinces his teammates and himself that he had the world’s most boring vacation.


End file.
